


If The Beasts Should Hunt Us

by hidethemoon



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Demons, Harry is only eight or so, Harry's body and soul just belong to Voldemort now no biggie, Harry's parents still ded, No Smut, Nothing graphic or even sexual, Occult, One-Shot, Other, Somewhat non-magical AU, Underage but also not?, Violence, multiple character deaths, some gore
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-27
Updated: 2018-11-27
Packaged: 2019-09-01 06:14:32
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,025
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16759549
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hidethemoon/pseuds/hidethemoon
Summary: Voldemort is the monster under Harry's bed.Somewhat non-magical AU.





	If The Beasts Should Hunt Us

**Author's Note:**

> Something to post while I despair over everything else I've written.
> 
> I count this as Voldemort/Harry, maybe like a "pre" type thing. But nothing graphic at all, Harry's a child. He's just an idiot and also his soul is bound to Voldemort now, thanks mom! Maybe if I feel up to it'll write an actually graphic follow-up where Harry is older.

Petunia slammed the door to her nephew’s bedroom behind her and threw the lock, effectively trapping him inside. She then stomped down the stairs towards the kitchen, intent on fixing herself a bit of tea. If a splash of bourbon made its way into the cup, well, Vernon didn’t need to know.

There was no noise at all from upstairs, much to her relief. This was usually the case once Harry was locked up in his bedroom, though every now and then she could hear whispering or his feet shuffling about. She thought, sometimes, she had heard furniture moving about, but when she put her ear to his door to check, silence was all that greeted her.

The noises unnerved her. She never knew what her nephew was doing in there, who he was talking to. Any time she glanced into his room, it looked exactly the same as it always had. She didn’t quite understand it, but she always let it be. 

Harry’s bedroom unsettled her. Her nephew could be quite unsettling on his own, but the bedroom was something else entirely.

Vernon and herself hadn’t even wanted to give the boy his own bedroom, initially. They had put him in the cupboard under the stairs, fixed it up with a simple cot mattress and old, ratty blankets that she no longer cared for. All things she could spare for her unwanted nephew. She resented his presence almost as much as she resented the old “family friend” who had dumped the baby on their doorstep after delivering the news that her estranged sister and her oddball husband had been murdered. Vernon had wanted to throw the baby into an orphanage and forget about him. Some long lost vestigial love for Lily had made Petunia decide to keep the child instead.

The cupboard had been the first option, but little Harry screamed and cried through two straight days and nights. Petunia, decided by some unknown force, finally took Harry into the smallest spare bedroom where they had been keeping some of Dudley’s toys he no longer played with. Vernon had wanted to turn the room into a personal office, but excuses kept getting in the way and it had never happened. Instead it sat as a room for broken things for over a year.

Harry had stopped crying as soon as they entered the room. He stared about with large, interested green eyes that reminded her so greatly of Lily. It was the first time he had truly stopped crying in two days, and Petunia dared breathe a sigh of relief.

The room itself wasn’t much. A cheap desk was pushed against the wall by the one window, a remnant of Vernon’s original intentions for the room. There was a spare bed on the opposite wall, her old childhood twin bed that she had inherited from her parents, along with the ugly old chest of drawers meant to match. There were still some faded stickers scattered around the bottom drawer that had refused to come away. The visible remnant of her childhood made something in her chest squeeze. Lily had given her those stickers.

The rest of the room was littered with broken toys and forgotten odds and ends that she and Vernon had no other place for. Dudley's first crib was in there also, shoved against a wall. They had quickly gotten a newer, fancier, and more expensive crib when the Potts two doors down had had their daughter and promptly showed off the safety features of their brand new crib. It had made Petunia a bit sour, and she bought what she believed to be a better crib the very next day. The original crib, still perfectly fine, was practically brand new, but somehow the shadows of the room made it seem as broken and ramshackle as everything else.

It was a sad little room, which was perhaps why they had largely stayed out of it. Even the one window never seemed to quiet catch the sunlight right, and the room always seemed dim. Petunia decided she quiet hated it then, and looked down at her silent nephew.

It was not the window, or the random toys that had caught Harry’s attention. He was staring at the deep shadows beneath the twin bed, unblinking. When Petunia followed his gaze, she felt a deep, unsettling shiver wrack her body and something icy cold trickled down her spine. She felt watched, assessed even. The shadows beneath the bed were terribly dark, and seemed to beckon her. 

She promptly left Harry in the room, in Dudley’s old crib, and fled.

It had been the same thing ever since--Harry would scream and cry outside of his bedroom as a toddler, but she wouldn’t hear a peep out of him all night. As he grew older, outside excursions turned him sullen and withdrawn. He did his chores (gardening and cleaning, mostly) without comment, and retreated to his bedroom at the earliest convenience. She hardly ever saw him eat. He was skinny for a boy his age, and very pale, but he didn't seem malnourished. She wasn't sure how he was managing it, but he never asked for food, or even water. He hardly even spoke to them. She sometimes feared he was behind, but there was a keen light in his eyes that told her otherwise.

Harry just preferred not to speak to them. She decided she was alright with that.

Petunia sighed and stirred her tea.

She just didn’t know what to make of her nephew, sometimes. Vernon barely tolerated the boy, but Harry did so well at keeping out of sight, staying on top of his chores, and apparently not eating their food that Vernon hardly ever had anything to complain about. Dudley avoided Harry completely. Something about that didn’t sit right with Petunia, but she had never asked. She was too scared of what Dudley might tell her about Harry.

Oh--now she could hear it.

If she waited long enough, Petunia could sometimes hear the whispering. Even from the second floor the hushed tones carried, unintelligible to her ears. Sometimes Harry would giggle. It was unmistakable sound, high pitched and giddy. She had thought, in the beginning, that Harry was enjoying Dudley's broken toys to the best of his ability. Vernon had removed them all shortly after, but the laughing and whispering continued despite it. 

But she knew, and was more certain every time, that there was a different voice mixed with Harry’s own. It was deep, a sibilant hiss that sent honest fear into her heart. She was so sure she was just hearing things, could only tell herself that she was hearing things, because there was nothing else in that room with Harry. There couldn’t be.

Unbidden, Petunia stood and crept back up the stairs. She did her very best to avoid any untoward sound, and was rewarded by the continued whispers from her nephew’s room.

She had to know…

Her hand reached the knob, and she had almost grasped it, when the front door opened rather noisily. Vernon was home.

The whispers stopped abruptly.

Petunia drew her hand back, disappointed, yet also more than a little relieved that she had not been allowed to see what had waited for her.

-:-

Dudley could hear the whispering especially well at night.

His room was next to Harry’s, and the walls of the house weren’t so thick. Only sometimes could he hear words, phrases, bits and pieces that were perfectly clear English and yet didn’t make enough sense for Dudley to understand.

He could hear Harry’s voice, soft and childish, talking to something. Sometimes he would laugh, but mostly he would whisper things to the other voice, things Dudley could hardly hear.

“...no love here…”

“...always...empty…”

“...Uncle would be so angry…”

“...what can I do?...”

"...afraid...power..."

And the voice would reply. It always replied, in a cold, hissing voice that made Dudley quite afraid he would wet the bed. He was far too old for that nonsense at eight years old, but the voice made his muscles seize and cramp and it was all he could do not to run to his parent’s room for comfort.

He couldn’t hear what the other voice said, usually. But sometimes, Dudley was so sure he could hear it saying one thing in particular.

“So kill them.”

-:-

Vernon had had enough.

His godforsaken nephew was sick, according to Petunia. Harry hadn’t come out of his bedroom all day, and Vernon had enjoyed not seeing the boy’s hunched form scuttling about the house.

But he could hear the whispering.

It had started softly, barely noticeable. He wrote it off as Dudley watching something on the little telly in his room, but Dudley had come down for lunch some time ago, and the sibilant little noises continued.

“Dudders, did you leave the little telly in your room on again? We've talked about this.” Dudley pouted a bit, but shook his head.

“I didn’t! I swear. I know it costs us for the electric-city.”

“Electricity, Dudders,” Vernon gently corrected, but his mind was already elsewhere. Harry didn’t have a telly in his bedroom. He had nothing at all to entertain him. But the whispers were certainly coming from upstairs. He looked to Petunia for answers, but she was steadfastly avoiding her family's gaze, her eyes fixed on her sandwich and her mouth a tight, thin line. Vernon decided not to try his luck there.

When the whispers continued into the evening, refusing to be drowned out even by the volume on the telly, Vernon decided he had had enough of the nonsense.

Stomping up the stairs, Vernon barely registered that the whispering had stopped over the thudding of his own feet. He yanked the door to Harry’s room open, prepared to do his fair share of yelling at his thrice-cursed nephew. Vernon so loved to yell, and didn't often get to do enough of it at work. 

Harry was sitting on the little twin bed, those eerie green eyes fixed on Vernon as though he could see every single thought in his head. Vernon shuddered unwillingly, yet took a menacing step forward anyway. He refused to let his nephew intimidate him, no matter how freaky he was.

“I’ve had enough of all that whispering, boy. I don’t know who you’re talking to in here other than your own damn crazy self, but it had better stop now, you hear me?” He could feel his face purpling, the prickly heat spreading down his neck, but Harry only blinked owlishly at him behind those ugly glasses. “I want an affirmative answer, boy,” he hissed.

“Of course,” Harry said, his voice quiet and even. Vernon didn’t even bother correcting Harry for not being respectful. The shadows in the room had lengthened and were twisting threateningly. He suddenly developed the absurd notion that the were trying to grab hold of him.

Vernon simply turned and left, carefully keeping his steps measured, but he wanted so badly to flee.

-:-

Sometimes the lights flickered in the house, something almost like a pattern, if Petunia paid attention.

The first time it happened, Vernon had called an electrician. The man inspected the breaker, poked at the outlets, and peered suspiciously at the power lines outside. Finally, he shrugged rather helplessly.

“Everything’s pretty much in order, Mr. Dursley. I've no clue what's going on with your lights. Sure you ain't imagining it?"

He had little else to say, except that if they wanted a complete assessment and replacement of their sockets and wires, it would put a hefty chunk in their bank.

Vernon harrumphed and paid the man for the inspection, then shooed him out. The lights were well enough.

The lights didn’t flicker often, Petunia noticed, but it seemed to happen in evenings more than anything else. When they would blink out for a short moment, leaving the fading twilight to illuminate the house, Petunia swore she could see a shape squeezing between the shadows.

Then the lights would flicker back on, and all would be well.

It happened so infrequently, both she and Vernon eventually let it be.

-:-

Something was burning.

Petunia peered up the stairs, but could see no smoke clouding the air. The usual acrid, heavy scent of a house burning also was not present, but she could smell the ashes. Ashes carried a cleaner scent. There was something a bit earthy to the smell too, herbal. She couldn’t quite make it out. 

Cautiously she crept up the stairs. On the landing, the smell grew a bit stronger, and now she could hear the whispering too. No, not whispering, exactly--

More like chanting. 

It was a low murmuring sound, but she was sure if it. She had heard something like this before, and the memory came rushing back to her. It felt like so long ago, creeping towards her sister’s locked bedroom door and crouching by the jamb, listening intently to the guttural muttering and chanting coming from the room. The scent of burning herbs. Now she was hearing it again, coming from her nephew’s bedroom. Her sister’s son.

She remembered the sigils she’d found inscribed over and over again in the leather journal Lily kept, seeming almost carved into the page. The stash of herbs, powders, bone and an ornate dagger. She had wanted to tattle so dearly but Lily had sworn her to secrecy. Petunia had kept her sister’s secret. Nobody knew anything about what Lily had done except Petunia, and even she didn't fully grasp it.

A pulsing energy, anxiety mixed with dread and bravado, sent her to her feet and forcing her nephew’s bedroom door open.

“What the devil are you doing in here? What are you burning?” she demanded, arms akimbo. Harry had whipped about to look at her from his place by the window, his eyes almost challenging. His hands were balled up, resting on the windowsill, and as she watched they clenched harder. The challenging glint in his eyes made her stop, look around, and she simply couldn’t understand it.

The boy’s room was clean. There was nothing burning, not even a hint of smoke in the room. His window was firmly closed. Nothing seemed out of the ordinary at all, and indeed the only thing of visible interest was a book, lying face-down on his bed. She crept in just slightly, peering about in confusion, but there was truly nothing. Harry quietly watched her the whole time.

“I...I smelled…” Petunia stuttered, unsure. Harry only watched her quietly with a small frown on his face.

“I’m not doing anything at all, Aunt Petunia. Could you please get out of my room?"

Petunia, at a loss for words, simply backed out of room and left, shutting the door firmly behind her.

Harry wiped off the ashes on his palms onto his jeans, leaving dark streaks on the faded denim.

-:-

The laughing was probably the worst. High pitched giggles, cackling, sometimes a thin, high laugh that sounded so utterly out of place in the world. Petunia could make nothing of it. Even Vernon remained quiet, but tense.

It was only a matter of time, Petunia thought, before he snapped and kicked Harry out.

-:-

They came quite close a few months later. The burning smell had returned, this time while everyone was home. Vernon managed to ignore the faint smell, of which Petunia was silently grateful. But when the lights flickered, and the house shook, and something like a scream (surely too high, too piercing, to be so) echoed through the house, Vernon wobbled to his feet.

His jowls shook with anger, but there was fear in the reddening of his face too. “That boy,” he snarled as he lurched towards the stairs, “has got to go, Petunia.”

“Vernon,” she tried to say, but her voice felt so soft and distant. Something in the air had shifted. Their house felt wrong now. It wasn't theirs anymore. She didn’t know how she knew, but she knew.

Dudley made to follow his father. When Petunia tried to stop him, grabbing at his elbow, he shook her off. Dudley was scared of Harry, she knew. He would want Harry out of the house just as much as Vernon, if only to never have to be around him and his creepy eyes again. Dudley would want to see every minute of this, his cousin being thrown out of the house. Bless him, but he could be so vindictive. But then again, she thought, timidly following her family up the stairs, it was hard not to be around Harry.

She heard her husband screaming before she saw it. Racing up the stairs now, she watched as Vernon was yanked bodily into Harry’s dark bedroom. Dudley was frozen in the middle of the hallway, crouched on the floor in utter fear. Disgusting sounds came from the room, ripping and grunting and the sound of bones snapping. Vernon had only screamed for a few small seconds before going chillingly quiet.

Distantly, Petunia heard weeping.

It came out of the room, ducking beneath the top of the door. A tall, terrifying thing, with waxy skin the color of death. Its eyes, enormous and red and snake-like, protruded eerily from its triangular head. It was quiet naked, but it seemed natural for it to be so, for what demon wears clothing? 

Oh, it was smiling. At her.

Wickedly sharp teeth in a smile that stretched across its face, and she could see now that it had no nose, but two thin little slits, like those of a snake. It was walking towards Dudley now, but its eyes were fixed upon her, holding her gaze with a mocking glint in its eyes.

Petunia trembled, unable to move as it simply reached down and squeezed Dudley’s head in its thin, spidery hand until it caved in. She didn’t even hear Dudley’s screaming, lost as she was in those abhorrent red eyes. Dudley's body crumpled to the floor, his head crushed. Brain matter and blood fell onto her Persian runner that Vernon had bought her as a house warming gift. 

She wanted to be sick.

“I remember you,” the demon hissed as it came closer. She distantly noticed her nephew tumbling out of the bedroom, blood streaming from his nose and eyes and ears as he crawled towards her and the demon. He was crawling towards them, but he would not reach them.

“I took your sister,” the demon continued. Its voice was so terribly soft. Its body seemed to creak like an old tree as it bent to look into her eyes. “She was the one who summoned my spirit. I’m sure you remember.” The herbs, the book, the dagger. Petunia remembered. “She wanted to summon the demon Voldemort, and Voldemort she got.”

“What did he do? What did Harry do?” She was so afraid, but it seemed like noise now. Everything was so distant.

“Your mother retrieved my spirit after speaking to me for many years. She then attached my spirit to her son, and died in the process. Her foolish husband was caught in her crossfire. Harry gave a life to retrieve a body for me.” The creature leaned down further, eyes alight with glee. “Do you know whose life he gave to resurrect me?”

Petunia’s eyes met Harry’s. He was still weeping, curled up helplessly on the floor. Her nephew had never looked so vulnerable. She hated him so dearly in that moment, but even that felt distant.

“He wanted to sacrifice his uncle, but I needed a stronger connection. A blood connection.” Voldemort smiled, teeth sharp and glistening and hollow, dripping with something viscous and acrid. “He gave me yours.”

Harry watched her, watched her face collapse on itself. She had known, of course, as soon as the creature began to speak. It was here for her life.

“I always hated you,” she muttered quietly, meeting Harry’s eyes yet again. She hated the pity there. She hated having to look past Dudley’s body to see her nephew, still curled up on the floor. She hated how she knew he would do this again, and again, and that her family had been first in line. “I hope you burn in hell.”

The demon laughed, a thin, high sound that finally made her break down in a sobbing fit. "It will be a long time before that boy burns in Hell, Petunia Dursley. He gave up your life for power, immortality, and so much more. He will finally gain from his life with you." 

"Immortality?" 

Voldemort smiled that wicked smile again. "Oh, certainly. I filled his head with a demon's secrets, and promises of knowledge and power that he could only dream of. But there was something I did not tell him. Can you imagine what that would be, Petunia? What is the price of a demon's secrets and powers, do you think?"

Petunia dared meet the demon's eyes. They were glittering so terribly. Those eyes turned to gaze upon her bloodied nephew, and then she knew.

"He belongs to you now," she whispered, and heard Harry sob. Even her young nephew knew what that meant. "I hope it was worth it, Harry."

"It will be," Voldemort promised, drawing a single clawed hand down Harry's pale cheek. "He will learn to crave me, oh, yes. He will love and desire nothing but a demon's body and twisted soul. He is already starting. That is the price, Harry, of being bound to a demon. Perhaps if you had not summoned my body, our bond what have remained latent until you approached your death. Then, I would have claimed you, as is my right. You could have lived your life as you pleased, dear one. But now, now you are mine and mine alone. You will never leave my side." Voldemort hissed these binding words into Harry's bleeding ears, and the boy shivered and shook and looked so fearful that Petunia almost pitied him in return. But she found, as she turned her gaze to the body of her own dead son, and thought of Lily's own transgressions, that she could not pity him. 

Harry belonged to a demon now. She could feel no pity for him, not even as the demon gripped his black hair and kissed his little mouth. She looked away as Harry moaned. Demons felt no care for a child's innocence, but she refused to witness Harry's defilement. 

As if sensing her thoughts, Voldemort broke from the kiss and turned to look at her once again. "Now, perhaps, you will not feel so terribly about dying, knowing your nephew will not enjoy this life. Does it make you feel better, Petunia? Knowing I will ravish your nephew's body, corrupt him, raise him into a monster like myself?"

Petunia did vomit then, and Voldemort's soft hissing laughter mocked her from above. 

"Your dear aunt has had enough, Harry. Will you watch as I kill her?" Voldemort smiled again, his terrible face splitting in half. "Watch carefully, child. Do not take your eyes off her."

Harry's face, full of pity, and now remorse so deep, was the last thing she saw before pain, and darkness, and then true silence took her.

-:-

Number Four, Privet Drive was mysteriously burned to the ground overnight. Investigators wrote it off as faulty wiring, despite an electrical inspection a month previous being on the house's record. There was simply no other satisfactory answer that investigators could find.

A funeral was arranged for the ashes of three people. Only one person, a nephew, had survived his family. The young boy was set aside for social services to deal with, but he mysteriously disappeared within the hour and was never seen again.

A new house, perfectly identical to the last, was built on the plot in its stead. A perfectly normal family moved in yet again. After some trouble with the lights flickering, and the occasional odd noises heard at odd hours, and the unexplained smell of burning herbs and bone, the family eventually accepted the odd quirks of the house. 

Life moved on.


End file.
